I think a lot of people are cynical about New Year's. The first day of a new year is truly just another sunrise and sunset, and the night before can be nothing more than an agony of ridiculous cover charges and hangovers-to-be.
But it just might be my favorite holiday. Unlike most holidays, it is a two-day affair: the Eve, in which we remember the year that has gone, and the Day, in which we look with hope at the year to come.
I love, too, that it is that perfect mixture of all that is ordinary about our lives and those few unique moments that keep our lives interesting. We still have to fix meals, do laundry and buy groceries, but we get to wear sparkly clothes, drink champagne and stay home from work.
These last few days, as we finished up 2012 and coasted into 2013, I felt keenly the blend of regular and unusual in our house. Around the table, the last three days have felt like a cross-section of how we eat at our house: one-third mommy-scrambling to prepare something with leftovers, imperceptible vegetables and a gush of sauce; one-third patronage at Chef Matt's restaurant, shoveling lovely food while vainly trying to sedate screaming children; and one-third Matt-at-home concoction, wondering why we can't eat venison au jus and rutabaga-carrot mash more often.
Eating these three wildly different meals were my typical little eaters: a five-year-old who cannot eat a meal in less than 45 minutes, a three-year-old who can be convinced to eat anything provided it comes with ketchup, and a one-year-old who can sniff out a vegetable even when it has been pureed and baked in a brownie.
All of that smacks of the everyday in our house. But this New Year's was sprinkled with all those little things that make the ordinary gleam, just a little bit. We were eating leftover slop and venison chops in our new house. Matt worked a 14-hour day on the Eve, but was home all day with us on the Day, a rare family day. I skipped the champagne and went to bed at nine-thirty, courtesy of Baby Number Four. I wore sparkly clothes and stayed home from work.
None of us knows what a new year will bring, in the form of out-of-the-ordinary. Is that not the amazing, and scary, thing about our brief time on this earth? Our lives generally just continue as usual, and we get tired of doing dishes and changing diapers. But every year, New Year's comes around to remind us that there are champagne glasses and new babies, too, and we can feel hopeful again.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
In Which It All Pays Off
In December of 2007, my husband got a text from his boss, desperate for his help on a busy, short-staffed pre-Christmas day. In the restaurant business, during busy season, this is nothing unusual.
But on that snowy afternoon, we were on our first date in three months, a musical theater show that had been a much-anticipated anniversary gift. Chef Matt checked his phone at intermission, gave me a very anxious look, and we left without finishing the show. He went to work, and I cried on the couch after he left.
In the eight years we have been together, anxiety and frustration from moments just like this have never gotten the better of us, but I would be lying if I said it did not occasionally make me wish he was a banker. As uncharitable as it sounds, I found myself screaming in my head: "Please go find a cubicle!"
But in a kitchen-marriage, you have to be in it together on every level, or the restaurant world will eat you alive. And to me that has meant learning to love the new cuisine at whatever new restaurant he was at (I have come to love short ribs and flatbread, cilantro and plantains, fancy foams, game burgers, and Julia Child), finding a lot of last-minute daycare, and most difficult, embracing the unpredictability in a (usually) gracious manner.
Throughout it all, we have whispered about the freedom that would come when he was, one day, in charge at a restaurant. We were under no illusions about a cushy job as executive chef, working fewer and shorter hours, but with Matt at the helm, it would give us greater control of our destiny.
An executive chef title would not erase the long hours or the crazy schedule. But it would be his food, his vision, his management and his pride, and somehow, that might make all the rest a little bit easier.
So for eight years, through six restaurants, hundreds of cookbooks read, and a few heartbreaks, he has slowly inched forward. Yesterday, the door finally swung open and the light of Executive Chef poured in. And I cried again, but this time in relief and pride and joy.
I cannot say that we will never again have to leave a date halfway through, or that we will not power through weeks where we are awake in the same room for a total of four hours, but at least it will be on his terms, and when he comes home late, he will be bearing to-go boxes of his own vision.
But on that snowy afternoon, we were on our first date in three months, a musical theater show that had been a much-anticipated anniversary gift. Chef Matt checked his phone at intermission, gave me a very anxious look, and we left without finishing the show. He went to work, and I cried on the couch after he left.
In the eight years we have been together, anxiety and frustration from moments just like this have never gotten the better of us, but I would be lying if I said it did not occasionally make me wish he was a banker. As uncharitable as it sounds, I found myself screaming in my head: "Please go find a cubicle!"
But in a kitchen-marriage, you have to be in it together on every level, or the restaurant world will eat you alive. And to me that has meant learning to love the new cuisine at whatever new restaurant he was at (I have come to love short ribs and flatbread, cilantro and plantains, fancy foams, game burgers, and Julia Child), finding a lot of last-minute daycare, and most difficult, embracing the unpredictability in a (usually) gracious manner.
Throughout it all, we have whispered about the freedom that would come when he was, one day, in charge at a restaurant. We were under no illusions about a cushy job as executive chef, working fewer and shorter hours, but with Matt at the helm, it would give us greater control of our destiny.
An executive chef title would not erase the long hours or the crazy schedule. But it would be his food, his vision, his management and his pride, and somehow, that might make all the rest a little bit easier.
So for eight years, through six restaurants, hundreds of cookbooks read, and a few heartbreaks, he has slowly inched forward. Yesterday, the door finally swung open and the light of Executive Chef poured in. And I cried again, but this time in relief and pride and joy.
I cannot say that we will never again have to leave a date halfway through, or that we will not power through weeks where we are awake in the same room for a total of four hours, but at least it will be on his terms, and when he comes home late, he will be bearing to-go boxes of his own vision.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Hello, My Name is Mommy
A teacher acquaintance was telling me recently about the Vietnam veterans who speak to her classes, and the vets say that when a soldier was wounded, no matter his age or rank, he would call for his mother.
So many of us, soldiers or not, are drawn to our mothers when we are sick, of body or of heart. From the very beginning, they are our everything; as we get older, we still know that our mothers will be there with a hug and a band-aid, and all will be well. No other person on Earth knows our histories like our mothers do, and that makes them, from the first moment to the last, our most effective, fierce, and comforting line of defense in a difficult world.
The mother mission statement is not so very complex, but the job description is miles long. It all boils down to one essential requirement, though: "Make sure that my child feels loved and secure." They know we will be there to kiss boo-boos, chase monsters, cool fevers, and tuck them back into bed, and we are their favorite person because of it.
Motherhood is a completeness that I did not understand until I joined the ranks. All that assurance of love and safety changes who you are, for in that instant when you go from being a woman to being a mother, you become, to that little person, forever and ever, no matter what, in every moment, without pause: Mommy. To them, there is no other identity.
And I will not lie, being someone's everything can be exhausting. But it is also triumphant. When your newborn baby cannot be comforted by others, and is beside himself with sadness, you can swoop in and lay his head on your chest, and it is like a spell has been adeptly cast over his red-faced, teary, hiccupping little self. You are Mommy, and you can fix anything.
The singular identity lives on far past babyhood. In ninth grade, my mother destroyed her favorite accessory so I could use it in a school project. I was touched, but I did not understand until recently the depth of that gesture. Mothers sacrifice every day, in small and enormous ways, without hesitation or need for payback, because they want us to feel loved and secure. My mother's little sacrifice told me that nothing, no material thing, was more important to her than me.
Remind your mother that she is your everything, even if you are grown-up and independent. We may not need her to chase away monsters anymore, but at one point, we needed her and she was there. And if you are a mother, look at your babies and remind yourself that when they lay down their little heads, they sleep well because they know that you are there. Your Mommy-completeness is their security blanket, and will be for long after the last time you ever tuck them into bed.
So many of us, soldiers or not, are drawn to our mothers when we are sick, of body or of heart. From the very beginning, they are our everything; as we get older, we still know that our mothers will be there with a hug and a band-aid, and all will be well. No other person on Earth knows our histories like our mothers do, and that makes them, from the first moment to the last, our most effective, fierce, and comforting line of defense in a difficult world.
The mother mission statement is not so very complex, but the job description is miles long. It all boils down to one essential requirement, though: "Make sure that my child feels loved and secure." They know we will be there to kiss boo-boos, chase monsters, cool fevers, and tuck them back into bed, and we are their favorite person because of it.
Motherhood is a completeness that I did not understand until I joined the ranks. All that assurance of love and safety changes who you are, for in that instant when you go from being a woman to being a mother, you become, to that little person, forever and ever, no matter what, in every moment, without pause: Mommy. To them, there is no other identity.
And I will not lie, being someone's everything can be exhausting. But it is also triumphant. When your newborn baby cannot be comforted by others, and is beside himself with sadness, you can swoop in and lay his head on your chest, and it is like a spell has been adeptly cast over his red-faced, teary, hiccupping little self. You are Mommy, and you can fix anything.
The singular identity lives on far past babyhood. In ninth grade, my mother destroyed her favorite accessory so I could use it in a school project. I was touched, but I did not understand until recently the depth of that gesture. Mothers sacrifice every day, in small and enormous ways, without hesitation or need for payback, because they want us to feel loved and secure. My mother's little sacrifice told me that nothing, no material thing, was more important to her than me.
Remind your mother that she is your everything, even if you are grown-up and independent. We may not need her to chase away monsters anymore, but at one point, we needed her and she was there. And if you are a mother, look at your babies and remind yourself that when they lay down their little heads, they sleep well because they know that you are there. Your Mommy-completeness is their security blanket, and will be for long after the last time you ever tuck them into bed.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
And the Award Goes To... Probably Not One of Us
Next week, the James Beard Foundation will crown as the top chefs in America those who have inspired with their culinary prowess and set a national standard for excellence. To our chagrin, Chef Matt was overlooked once again.
The Beard Award is a Pulitzer. It is prestigious and exclusive and practically a guarantee that your reservations will fill up for the next year. Minnesota has three winners of the Best Chef: Midwest award, and all three of them are incredibly gifted chefs. But to 99.9% of the chef population, all those other creative, tireless, obsessively dedicated cooks, the Beard is eternally elusive.
Not that I am an advocate of every little soccer player getting a trophy. Illustrious awards are illustrious for a reason, and the Beard winners have all done their time. But the shadows of the most influential American chefs are long and deep. Many of the "unsung heroes" of the profession will spend their careers firmly planted in those shadows.
The world of professional cooking is a serf-and-lord hierarchy, where the critics are brutal, the lifestyle is unforgiving, and the chances for advancement and overwhelming success are remote. Reality TV has made chef celebrity seem attainable, raising the hopes of poor, naive foodies everywhere.
People like my husband are part of an army of chefs who do precisely what they are meant to do: cook amazing food that wins no awards but makes people happy. As any musician knows, you cannot just string any old notes together and hope it makes a song. The same principle applies with food, and there are thousands of chefs across the country whose knowledge and talent produces nightly works of art, eliciting that dreamy look of pleasure from their patrons.
Although a Beard medal and the publicity that comes with it would certainly be a game-changer, I honestly think most chefs just like to cook and make people happy. I could be wrong. They could all be laboring in sweltering kitchens twelve hours a day, battling food cost and finicky guests, on the slimmest of slim chances that they will be nominated for the highest culinary honor. Somehow I think that the majority of them just love food, but ask me again when Matt gets his nomination letter.
The Beard Award is a Pulitzer. It is prestigious and exclusive and practically a guarantee that your reservations will fill up for the next year. Minnesota has three winners of the Best Chef: Midwest award, and all three of them are incredibly gifted chefs. But to 99.9% of the chef population, all those other creative, tireless, obsessively dedicated cooks, the Beard is eternally elusive.
Not that I am an advocate of every little soccer player getting a trophy. Illustrious awards are illustrious for a reason, and the Beard winners have all done their time. But the shadows of the most influential American chefs are long and deep. Many of the "unsung heroes" of the profession will spend their careers firmly planted in those shadows.
The world of professional cooking is a serf-and-lord hierarchy, where the critics are brutal, the lifestyle is unforgiving, and the chances for advancement and overwhelming success are remote. Reality TV has made chef celebrity seem attainable, raising the hopes of poor, naive foodies everywhere.
People like my husband are part of an army of chefs who do precisely what they are meant to do: cook amazing food that wins no awards but makes people happy. As any musician knows, you cannot just string any old notes together and hope it makes a song. The same principle applies with food, and there are thousands of chefs across the country whose knowledge and talent produces nightly works of art, eliciting that dreamy look of pleasure from their patrons.
Although a Beard medal and the publicity that comes with it would certainly be a game-changer, I honestly think most chefs just like to cook and make people happy. I could be wrong. They could all be laboring in sweltering kitchens twelve hours a day, battling food cost and finicky guests, on the slimmest of slim chances that they will be nominated for the highest culinary honor. Somehow I think that the majority of them just love food, but ask me again when Matt gets his nomination letter.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
A Farewell to a First House
Dear House,
You have probably noticed that we are leaving soon. I know that, in your 128 years, you have probably seen many families come and go, so we may be just another brief chapter in your long history. You have seen two world wars, the birth of automobiles and a man on the moon; our brief stay in your four walls is perhaps not as monumental, but I can promise you that it has been so important to us.
We arrived six months into a new marriage, expecting a baby, and looking with so much hope toward our future as a family. Three times we have walked out the front door and returned two days later with a baby. You have surrounded us as we learned to be parents, remembered how to be parents again, and juggled children who suddenly outnumbered us.
You have sheltered us from two feet of snow and 100-degree heat. You looked so lovely in Christmas lights, and probably laughed when our very first Christmas tree toppled over in the middle of the night. You sighed with contentment as we watched the neighborhood from the front porch swing.
We gave you a face lift, one project at a time over five years. As we pack up this last week, it makes us so proud to see your refinished floors, your gleaming kitchen, and your beautiful little yard, and know that we did our very best to make you into the home we always wanted.
And then, of course, were all the meals we ate within your walls. Three baptismal brunches, Sunday night football frozen pizzas, cook-outs with our friends, a handful of elegant suppers on our wedding china, and thousands of meals with our sweet kids, most of which ended up on the floor and in their hair. I learned to make pies in your kitchen, and ate leftovers upstairs while hiding from a mouse I saw downstairs.
If time is actually measured by memories and not days, we have lived a lifetime in these rooms. My heart aches when I think about our daughter's first steps in the kitchen, our son crawling in the new grass out back, and our baby's first "mama" yelled from his crib. We will be moving on to bigger rooms (with, no offense, more closet space), but those rooms will never be able to claim those milestones.
Please do not forget us. This last week will likely be a whirlwind of packing, kid-wrangling, and address-changing, and throughout it we will be both sad and hopeful. Remember that wherever we end up in life, you will always be our first home. We came in as two and are leaving as six, for in five years, you became one of the family.
Thank you, Little House. You are very dear to us.
Love, Your Family
You have probably noticed that we are leaving soon. I know that, in your 128 years, you have probably seen many families come and go, so we may be just another brief chapter in your long history. You have seen two world wars, the birth of automobiles and a man on the moon; our brief stay in your four walls is perhaps not as monumental, but I can promise you that it has been so important to us.
 |
| Moving in, May 2007. Five years and three kids to follow. |
You have sheltered us from two feet of snow and 100-degree heat. You looked so lovely in Christmas lights, and probably laughed when our very first Christmas tree toppled over in the middle of the night. You sighed with contentment as we watched the neighborhood from the front porch swing.
We gave you a face lift, one project at a time over five years. As we pack up this last week, it makes us so proud to see your refinished floors, your gleaming kitchen, and your beautiful little yard, and know that we did our very best to make you into the home we always wanted.
And then, of course, were all the meals we ate within your walls. Three baptismal brunches, Sunday night football frozen pizzas, cook-outs with our friends, a handful of elegant suppers on our wedding china, and thousands of meals with our sweet kids, most of which ended up on the floor and in their hair. I learned to make pies in your kitchen, and ate leftovers upstairs while hiding from a mouse I saw downstairs.
If time is actually measured by memories and not days, we have lived a lifetime in these rooms. My heart aches when I think about our daughter's first steps in the kitchen, our son crawling in the new grass out back, and our baby's first "mama" yelled from his crib. We will be moving on to bigger rooms (with, no offense, more closet space), but those rooms will never be able to claim those milestones.
Please do not forget us. This last week will likely be a whirlwind of packing, kid-wrangling, and address-changing, and throughout it we will be both sad and hopeful. Remember that wherever we end up in life, you will always be our first home. We came in as two and are leaving as six, for in five years, you became one of the family.
Thank you, Little House. You are very dear to us.
Love, Your Family
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Nobody Can Eat Fifty Egg(rolls). But We Try.
I am a little disgusted by marathon eaters, as I think many people are. It takes all the joy out of eating a hot dog when you eat 50, with water-logged buns no less, and then throw up afterward.
But I guess that makes me a bit of a hypocrite when you consider that the other night, I plowed through seven egg rolls as my husband and my father battled over who would break the all-time record of ten. My own personal record is nine, which is something that I am embarrassed to be a little proud of.
Because these are not garden-variety egg rolls. They are not Chinese take-out picked up on the way home, or hastily pulled from the freezer. These egg rolls, stuff of family legend, are homemade, hand-rolled, individually fried cocoons of wonderment that practically beg to be eaten by the dozen.
My aunt and uncle encountered the recipe for these egg rolls while they were living in the Southwest and introduced them to us many years ago, when they first moved to Minnesota. Since then, egg-roll night has become a most anticipated eating event, one that moves us to clear our calendars and starve ourselves the rest of the day.
They are in the kitchen for upwards of five hours, cooking pork and chopping water chestnuts, and then rolling and frying dozens (and I do actually mean dozens) of tart, crispy egg rolls that need to be lined up on giant cookie sheets because there are simply so many.
Then we are silent for 20 minutes: eating, refilling, eating. My brother-in-law stood near the food, both for easy access to the rolls and because, he said, you can fit more in when standing up. My father kept meticulous tallies of how many everyone was eating, determined to be the one to make it to eleven. My husband, who was earlier boastful that he would tackle twelve, stopped at ten and could barely move the rest of the night.
Is it worth the indigestion and slight feeling of shame? No question. We enjoy egg-roll night as much for the food itself as we do for the people who come with the egg rolls. There is a great sense of empathy that accompanies several family members who willingly attempt a Cool-Hand-Luke stunt and then lie around in misery afterward. I doubt the hot-dog-eaters enjoy the same type of camraderie with their fellow competitors.
But I guess that makes me a bit of a hypocrite when you consider that the other night, I plowed through seven egg rolls as my husband and my father battled over who would break the all-time record of ten. My own personal record is nine, which is something that I am embarrassed to be a little proud of.
Because these are not garden-variety egg rolls. They are not Chinese take-out picked up on the way home, or hastily pulled from the freezer. These egg rolls, stuff of family legend, are homemade, hand-rolled, individually fried cocoons of wonderment that practically beg to be eaten by the dozen.
My aunt and uncle encountered the recipe for these egg rolls while they were living in the Southwest and introduced them to us many years ago, when they first moved to Minnesota. Since then, egg-roll night has become a most anticipated eating event, one that moves us to clear our calendars and starve ourselves the rest of the day.
They are in the kitchen for upwards of five hours, cooking pork and chopping water chestnuts, and then rolling and frying dozens (and I do actually mean dozens) of tart, crispy egg rolls that need to be lined up on giant cookie sheets because there are simply so many.
Then we are silent for 20 minutes: eating, refilling, eating. My brother-in-law stood near the food, both for easy access to the rolls and because, he said, you can fit more in when standing up. My father kept meticulous tallies of how many everyone was eating, determined to be the one to make it to eleven. My husband, who was earlier boastful that he would tackle twelve, stopped at ten and could barely move the rest of the night.
Is it worth the indigestion and slight feeling of shame? No question. We enjoy egg-roll night as much for the food itself as we do for the people who come with the egg rolls. There is a great sense of empathy that accompanies several family members who willingly attempt a Cool-Hand-Luke stunt and then lie around in misery afterward. I doubt the hot-dog-eaters enjoy the same type of camraderie with their fellow competitors.
Monday, February 6, 2012
The Devil is in the Dip
Hey, Taco Dip. Can you come over here, please? I have something to say to you.
I have a bone to pick with you. You ruin every party where we are both in attendance, and frankly, I have had enough. You sit there, with your layers of guacamole and sour cream and refried beans and salsa, next to a dish of tortilla chips, and project an air of harmless deliciousness.
"I am just a dip," you seem to say. "Dips are innocent. We are just something to casually snack on before the meal. And look, I have tomatoes. Healthy."
Except you are not innocent, and you are certainly not the casual snack you advertise. When you are there, I ignore my children, my diet and my common sense, and stand guard over you with a fistful of Scoops, snarling at anyone else who dares come your way. I do not dip delicately; I must get a bit of every layer, and to do that, I have to dig to the bottom and come out with a chip that suddenly weighs a half a pound.
Just yesterday, I was seduced by Super Bowl Taco Dip, sprinkled with black olives and cheese. By the time I emerged, half the plate of dip was gone, and there was no dog that I could blame. It was all me. I consumed approximately 2,000 calories in 10 minutes, led on by that colorful, savory, evil parfait of taco fixings, neatly layered for my dipping convenience.
So here's what I have to say to you, Taco Dip. You stay away from me, you and your friends Artichoke Dip and Buffalo Chicken Dip and Crab Dip. If you are a dippy appetizer that I could potentially sit and eat with a spoon, no chip or cracker needed, then you stay at your high school graduation parties and do not come anywhere near any of my festivities.
I am too vulnerable, and I just end up hating myself in the morning. The last thing I need is one more Taco Dip hangover; the shame is more than I can bear. Not to mention the looks of disgust from my family members as I plow through more dip than any human being should eat, and then have to go lay rudely on the couch because I am too full to eat an actual meal.
That is all there is. Get out of my life and do not come back. Now please excuse me while I push aside the toothpicks and consume this whole crock pot of meatballs with my bare hands.
I have a bone to pick with you. You ruin every party where we are both in attendance, and frankly, I have had enough. You sit there, with your layers of guacamole and sour cream and refried beans and salsa, next to a dish of tortilla chips, and project an air of harmless deliciousness.
"I am just a dip," you seem to say. "Dips are innocent. We are just something to casually snack on before the meal. And look, I have tomatoes. Healthy."
Except you are not innocent, and you are certainly not the casual snack you advertise. When you are there, I ignore my children, my diet and my common sense, and stand guard over you with a fistful of Scoops, snarling at anyone else who dares come your way. I do not dip delicately; I must get a bit of every layer, and to do that, I have to dig to the bottom and come out with a chip that suddenly weighs a half a pound.
Just yesterday, I was seduced by Super Bowl Taco Dip, sprinkled with black olives and cheese. By the time I emerged, half the plate of dip was gone, and there was no dog that I could blame. It was all me. I consumed approximately 2,000 calories in 10 minutes, led on by that colorful, savory, evil parfait of taco fixings, neatly layered for my dipping convenience.
So here's what I have to say to you, Taco Dip. You stay away from me, you and your friends Artichoke Dip and Buffalo Chicken Dip and Crab Dip. If you are a dippy appetizer that I could potentially sit and eat with a spoon, no chip or cracker needed, then you stay at your high school graduation parties and do not come anywhere near any of my festivities.
I am too vulnerable, and I just end up hating myself in the morning. The last thing I need is one more Taco Dip hangover; the shame is more than I can bear. Not to mention the looks of disgust from my family members as I plow through more dip than any human being should eat, and then have to go lay rudely on the couch because I am too full to eat an actual meal.
That is all there is. Get out of my life and do not come back. Now please excuse me while I push aside the toothpicks and consume this whole crock pot of meatballs with my bare hands.
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